Shots of Vodka
by NonExistente
Summary: Angst, set after 'Doomsday' sorry people. The Doctor finds that a combination of vodka and memories does not fix anything– if anything, they make everything much, much worse. WARNING: excessive drinking involved, not advised for anyone! COMPLETE


**Title: Shot of Vodka**

**Series: Part 6 of the 'Cups of…' series**

**Rating: T, for excessive drinking– **_**not**_** advisable for anyone to try**

**Date written: 28/07/07**

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own it. This fic, and all of my 'Cups of…' series is written for pure enjoyment, nothing else, certainly not money. Everything is used, without permission, and belongs to RTD and the BBC.

**A/N: This fic was written when I was feeling -slightly depressed. It's not - repeat _not- _the end of the 'Cups of...' series, I simply wanted to post this. As I'm sure it says on my profile page (somewhere) there are two fics at minimum that fit in before this, and when they are finished I will post them. But, when 'Glasses of Lemonade' and 'Glasses of Wine' are posted, this fic _is_ the end. Probably doesn't make much sense, but hey. Not the end, just wanted to post the fic that will _eventually_ be the last of the series.**

* * *

A man sat, almost limply, at some dark bar, late on a Saturday night, alone. A haphazard row of empty shot glasses littered the bar table in front of him; a visible record of how long the man had sat there. The other patrons of the public house gave him a wide berth, the strange, silent man's obvious heartbreak almost tangible on the air. The man gave off a sense of– mystery, a sense of restlessness finally defeated by whatever had caused him so much sorrow. He had sat there, hours on end perhaps, as if detached from the world, only speaking once to order a straight shot of vodka. The barman had long since moved away, unnerved by his maintained silence, watching the pin–stripe suited man out of the corner of his eye as he served his other customers; the amount the man had taken was surely enough to knock a lesser man out cold. No one had approached him, sensing that whatever had happened to the man was not for anyone else's knowledge. Anyone who caught a glimpse of the man's face found they couldn't glance at him longer than a few seconds without becoming unnerved. His face was closed, haggard, emotionless, his eyes dark and empty and tired and unbelievably _old_, his lips set in a grim line.

* * *

The Doctor stared into space forlornly, the happy, carefree world of the humans behind him ignored, or maybe forgotten. Shakily, he set the latest empty shot down, and ran a hand through his hair dejectedly, lost in his memories. 

A century; 100 years. A century of heartbreak, of that ever–persistent presence of loneliness no matter how filled his TARDIS was, of trying, trying so _desperately _to move on, as he always did– as he always _used_ to. But sometimes, it became too much; tonight was one of those nights. The dreaded anniversary that settled the dark cloud of sorrow more firmly over his hearts; a century without his Rose Tyler at his side.

He couldn't even remember where he had landed to spend the 'momentous' event; London? Cardiff? Was he even on Earth? He couldn't remember, and quite frankly he couldn't care less. He enjoyed the feeling of numbness the pitiful human drink of vodka induced; it helped him, in some ways. His lips curled into a slight sneer and he gave derisive snort of laughter as he considered his own pathetic state, his _cowardliness_. For months, he had had Rose Tyler all to himself; neither of them had anticipated their untimely separation; both had naively believed in her promise of 'forever'. Neither had used their time together to its fullest extent. Neither of them verbally admitted their emotions, not until the last possible moment. And, because of his cowardliness, he hadn't spoken three words– _three lousy, monosyllabic words—_to the one who made him feel special, the one who stayed with him despite knowing his past, his unspeakable crimes against the universe; to the one he truly loved.

Even in his grief he was a coward; always running, always, always, _always_. Not a spare moment to think, not a spare moment to remember the good times, not a spare moment to grieve. He hauled companions, one after the other, into his TARDIS, to spare himself the pain of dwelling on the what–had–been's, the what–_could_–have–been's, but it never worked. Each had their own qualities, of course they did, but none of them _understood_ him the way Rose Tyler had- none of them had _achieved_ what Rose Tyler had. None of them could replace her. She haunted his TARDIS, his thoughts, his dreams– his nightmares. She was, truly, one in a million.

He sighed, setting another glass down on the bar with surprising control for someone supposedly as drunk as he was. It had taken so many shots to achieve the welcome numb feeling. The numbness dulled his memories, dulled the overwhelming tumult of emotions that came with them, until he could remember everything– anything– as if he was a bystander. And with all his hearts, he wished he_ had _been a bystander on the last day he could touch Rose Tyler.

He drew in a shuddering breath as the full extent of his pain smashed through his feeble, alcohol–induced barriers. Tears welled in his eyes, and steadily found their way down his cheeks. It hurt. It hurt _so _–_ much_. Reliving the fear– the fear for her safety– as she was inexorably pulled towards the Void. Her heart–wrenching cry to him. The numb denial as he faced the smooth, blank wall in Canary Wharf. Her drawn appearance, on Bad Wolf Bay. The inevitable tears, as he crushed her hopes of ever seeing him again. The brief spark of joy as she whispered three words– the overwhelming emptiness as he ran out of time to return them. He let out a ragged sob, unable to contain them anymore. His shoulders shook as he slumped at the bar, his hand tightening into fists. After a few moments, he collected himself, tears still trickling down his ashen cheeks. He moved one hand, lifting it a few inches to motion to the bartender.

He cursed the Daleks, and the Cybermen, and the universe as a whole as he gulped the new shot down in one, enjoying the burning it caused in his throat. He had, eventually, exacted his revenge upon the emotionless species, let the universe know that the Oncoming Strom was grieving. Oh yes, the universe still held the echoes of his actions. He was proud of it, proud of every Dalek life he took as he battled with his grief. He was proud of the genocide he finally succeeded in doing; now he truly lived up to their titles. It had helped him to vent some of his grief and unspeakable rage- helped, but not diminished- and it made the universe slightly more bearable knowing that those who had caused him to lose his Rose were destroyed, unable to terrorise innocent races, unable to cause anyone else any grief.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, allowing himself a moment of weakness; he could still picture her face, her beautiful face, as she smiled, as she laughed… as she wept. If he tried hard enough, he could feel her hands ghosting his face, over his chest, and around his waist to pull him to her for a glorious embrace, or feel her lips gently touch his. He could still smell her unique, human scent, and taste her from her kisses. He shivered, and threw back another shot.

* * *

He'd only ever felt this isolated once before; immediately after the Time War. He shuddered again, gripping his latest shot glass tightly. Fan–_bloody_–tastic, another wound opened. But even after the Time War, after destroying his planet, his family and his friends, he'd eventually found Rose; she'd helped him recover, she'd given him support,her time, her trust and most importantly her heart. This time, there was no one. No-one could repair his damaged soul with a smile, or a simple touch of their hand as _she_ had done. He held his glass out again, this time ordering a round of 6. The bartender gave him a strange, almost concerned look, but filled the shots nonetheless.

He stared at the neat row of clear glasses. With a bitter smile he arranged them in a hexagon, trying to fool his numb mind into believing they were the favoured image of the Time Lords of old, the stuffy old men sitting locked in their grand towers, the ones responsible for starting this, with their complicated and nonsensical rules that had started him running, oh-so long ago. Ironic that he'd spent so much time running, and hiding, from his one-time home, only to miss it so very much at the point of which it could never return. He almost felt like laughing.

He threw back one for all of his many, unforgivable sins he'd committed in his long life.

He threw back the second for all those who he'd changed, hurt, left behind, those who'd lost their lives because of him.

He threw back the third for those he'd cruelly pushed aside in his grief for Rose.

He threw back the fourth for the untimely demise of his planet and people, for all of those innocent lives lost, for the sights and knowledge lost for eternity as if they'd never existed.

He threw back the fifth in self–pity, and self–hate, once more wondering why he had been spared to only live through more misery and heartbreak.

And he threw the sixth back in remembrance of Rose Marion Tyler, the Last Time Lord's ultimate bane.

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**Thanks for reading, please leave a review. Tell me if you liked it, or if you didn't, or just anything at all that's hopefully linked to this. Do I suck at writing angst, or can this be deemed as half-decent? Tell me if I should stop writing this sorta thing, tell me anything at all!**


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